


Alice Clarke

by annaosborne17



Category: Original Work
Genre: Obsession, Other, Teacher-Student Relationship, crippling anxiety - Freeform, crippling depression - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 01:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7133150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annaosborne17/pseuds/annaosborne17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Trigger warning: Graphic suicide attempt</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Before Things Happened

My alarm goes off at 6:11. Normally it would be 6:35, but I really have to study today. I have a history test on the American Civil War first class. I know enough about the main intentions and motivations, but the actual details of the battles are fuzzy, even though I made sure to study Saturday and Sunday. Mr. Wilson is obsessed with the Civil War. Like, really obsessed. Newspaper clippings, a timeline a student made last year, and the Gettysburg Address cover the walls of his room. He really wants us to watch Cold Mountain in class, but he thinks too many parents will complain.

I really like that movie. I watched it with my mum once. Jude Law is an astonishing actor. And he’s amazing at accents. And hot. And probably nice like Mr. Wilson.

Oh my god, shut up, calm down. Breathe. Essay: I’m not too nervous about this one; we just have to give our opinion on whether the CSA could have won the war or not. I feel pretty confident after I write that "yes, the CSA could have won the war because Robert E. Lee was a brilliant general, but alas, Lincoln “changed the question” so there was no chance for them" three times as a basic outline. I check my phone. 6:34.

I shower and dry off, grab my makeup bag. I’m only 14, so Mum doesn’t want me to wear eyeliner or anything “too slutty.” I’ve told her multiple times that Catie, Charlotte, Rosie, and Victoire all wear eyeliner, and I’m older than all of them. I know she thinks I’m headed down the wrong path. Yet she always complains about how much acne I’m getting. I don’t care all that much, except for the ones on my forehead, because my hair doesn’t really hide those. I have some extra concealer from Saturday’s show, To Kill A Mockingbird. I was Mayella Ewell, and I guess she doesn’t really need concealer, but I don’t really think she would have acne either.

6:42. Okay, enough thinking. I put on some mascara too, to go with my blazer. Did I mention like every school in England forces its students to wear these really crappy uniforms with ties and blazers and collared shirts and shit? I go to independent secondary (a.k.a fee-requiring public) school too (Westchester Academy, 9 through 13, preparing students for college and beyond), but they still don’t bother to make the uniforms nicer. At least we get skirts. And we get to pick out what socks we wear. No restrictions on hair either, so everyone in my group got theirs coloured over the summer. I chose green. It looked really good when it was first done, but now you can see my dirty blonde hair through the streaks. Mum wouldn’t let me buy the special colour shampoo, so in addition to being fat I have to deal with this hair. That Bitch. OH MY GOD : STOP IT. I guess if you call your mother a bitch you’re a bitch too. I heard that somewhere. I know it’s really bad, but I mean she has been really bloody unfair lately. Whatever. I can’t think about it too much.

I pull up my socks. They’re black, to go with everything else. I check the full-length mirror on my closet three times: Tie tied, socks up, skirt covers my bum, blazer buttoned once in the middle across my chest. Everything’s good, except my stomach.

I clench my arm really, really hard. I can’t cry, the mascara isn’t waterproof, I have a test in an hour, and it’s already 7:06. After tucking and untucking the shirt four times and taking the skirt off twice to make it easier, I’m still not fixed. Fuck. My face is flushed, and I’ve probably breathed too rapidly, so now my stomach has sucked in a lot of air and I’m bloated. That’s not the real reason, bitch.

Being fat is honestly really hard. The thing is though, according to every government and non-government health chart, being 1.6 m, 14, and 8.5 stone isn’t overweight. Just teetering. It’s when you’re supposed to find something wonderful in lacrosse or soccer or the elliptical. When your mum sees how your thighs expand when you sit down to supper and she remembers that she needs to stop buying chocolate because you’ve reached “that phase.” It’ll pass, as phases do. “All it is is calories in, calories out.”

Fuck. How does this have anything to do with the Civil War? And I need breakfast. That’s important. How did you forget, you fucking pig? I’m going to cry again.

I see Molly at the table downstairs. A jar of Skippy is in front of her, and she’s spooning it on top of Oreos she’s taking out of the package. She’s eleven. Four stone, and her feet don’t even touch the ground. I head for the granola left out near the toaster. It’s organic and gluten free. 4.5 grams of fat per 2 oz serving. Must be the canola oil.

I weigh a 4 oz serving out on the scale before scraping it into the bowl with my spoon. I grab almond milk and the last red apple before heading back upstairs towards my room.

“So you’re just going to leave me here?” Molly asks.

“You don’t even care about me anyways. I’m just going upstairs,” I say through mouthfuls of oats.

“You’re SO MEAN. Ever since you got the lead you’ve been such a prick!”

“I’m going to tell Mum you used that word. It’s profanity!”

“IT IS NOT! Stop lying to me, you’re just trying to scare me!”

“Bye Molly.”

“I HATE YOU!!”

“I appreciate your kind sentiment.”

“I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS! I HOPE YOUR DAY IS BLOODY AWFUL! AND THAT YOU FAIL YOUR TEST!”

 

Oh yes. The test. I put my bowl in the sink, throw the half-eaten apple in the trash. I run up to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Why I chose granola, I don’t know. No time for that. 7:29. I run back to my room, put my essay drafts in my bag so they line up neatly with my U.S History binder. I pause: check to make sure I have absolutely everything: History, Latin, Algebra, Earth Science, English, The Glass Menagerie for today’s reading, yes, everything. I’m reviewing the first and second battles of Bull Run in my head as I sprint downstairs to the garage. I’m so close to escaping, but as I approach my bike Mum is fiddling with her car keys. I slam right into her.

“Alice, you really could be more careful,” she says, pausing to glare at inspect the specimen in front of her. “You’re part’s all messed up.”

Rather than say, “Isn’t it always?” I stick to muttering “I’ll fix it at school.”

“You always say that, and it never gets done. You just need to focus for once and learn how to do it.”

“I don’t have time. I have a test today. I need to go to school.”

She pauses, as if she wants to contradict. She can. She has that power. “Fine. What time will you be back home?”

“Probably half-past six.”

“Okay.” Again that pause. I need to go. We used to have more to say. I don’t want to think about that right now. “Come home soon,” she says before getting in her car. Molly’s in the front seat. She smirks at me. Satanic Bitch. 

“Bye.”

I pull my electric green bike out of the garage onto the dirt road that spits from our little cottage to the city. I’ve been riding my bike to school ever since I was eleven and Mum began taking college classes to “find a purpose again.” I throw my bookbag on and begin to pedal. I probably look like a turtle with my green hair and scoliosis posture, but the streets are dark enough that hopefully no one will care. I pass the pony pasture with Syphilis the old horse inside. Syphilis actually belongs to my friend Victoire. When I was eleven, at my very first sleepover, she explained to me, through bursts of laughter, that no, Syphilis was not her grandmother’s name, but actually the name of the disease that killed her. It’s definitely morbid, but I can tolerate it. Mum apparently cannot. I haven’t been allowed at her house since.

Dirt roads and grass transform into cobblestone and street lamps. I cross the bridge over a river American tourists think Virginia Woolf drowned in. We always get these tourists who think that, but she died in the part of the River Ouse way over south in East Sussex, rather than the River Ouse here in Yorkshire. At least that’s what my Dad told me once. He took me here all the time. Just the two of us with our 99 flakes ice cream and conversation about the world we shared. The river is actually quite beautiful. Better than anything you could find in East Sussex. That’s all beaches and fog anyway.

I turn left to the back of the school, where all of the bikes are parked. I chain mine up next to Rosie’s, as always. 7:50. Just enough time before the bell rings. I push the double doors open and am greeted by a flood of black ties and collared shirts. Boys and girls with pale faces and changing expressions. Shouting and laughing. I don’t see why it has to be so hard to pass through a hallway with only 500 or so students in the entire school. Westchester is really old and big too. I’m somehow able to get all the way to my locker without bumping into anyone like Mr. Wilson (bloody nightmare that was). I shove the rest of my binders into my sad excuse of a locker. Bell rings. Time for assembly.

“ALICE! OH MY GOD, HI!” It’s Victoire Elton, 1.7 m, 5.9 stone, her dark blue hair precisely cut and falling neatly at her shoulders, screaming at me from halfway across the quad. She actually has her hands cupped around her mouth to make this greeting. People are staring at me, and I hate that it bothers me. Last year, no one would have ever seemed so happy to see me, much less shout their exhilaration across the quad.

“Vicki, Shut up! No one wants to see you high!” This is Catie Patel. Mixed Indian and English. 1.5 m, 6.4 stone. Crimson red hair. No one talked to her until Victoire moved here in Year 5. She’s chewing gum. “Hey Alice.”

“Hi,” I reply, really hoping no teacher gets mad at us. “Hey, Rosie.”

“Hey.” Margaret Rose Peterson, 1.6 m, solid muscle, but probably not much heavier than 7 stone. Layered purple hair surrounds her pierced freckled face, the face of assurance, an athlete. “Hey Char.”

“Hi.” Charlotte Bennett concludes our round of “heys”. 1.6 m, 10 stone. Heavier than me. Pale, probably paler than Victoire, if that’s at all possible. Hipster glasses. Hot pink hair. She does sets and costumes for our plays. She’s really into feminism. Books and everything.

“A prayer for….peace!” Mr. Forrest begins our daily ritual of a “non religious prayer.” Still, Victoire and Catie are faced forward with their eyes wide open. They got in trouble last week for talking during the prayer, so now Mrs. Sorensen, the art teacher and Mr. Forrest’s confirmed mistress, is breathing down their backs. I look at Rosie, her head bowed, her powerful figure hunched in prayer still looks like she could attack at any moment. I follow her lead, my delicate fingers marred by flesh and irritation from my constant wringing and scratching. It’s time for class.

Victoire follows me to my locker, quizzing herself on the way to history class. I’m feeling good. I know everything she’s reciting, and I’m able to mentally correct her mistakes. (No, Robert E. Lee’s greatest failure was at Pickett’s charge, not the 1st Battle of Bull Run. He won that).


	2. Before The First Meeting

We arrive at Wilson’s windowless classroom near the back of the building, where all of the history classes are. He lets us pick where we want to sit, but Victoire and I weren’t really friends at the beginning of the year, and she likes to sit with her boyfriend Fabian Martin (a Year 11 in a Year 9 class), so I head to my seat in the back row, second to last column. He’s also the only teacher who doesn’t really care if we use our phones. Or eat breakfast. We just can’t fall asleep (Fabian made that mistake. I have never seen him get mad like that. I almost cried. And I really wanted to kiss him because he’s American and has great core values and he’s hot). Jesus Christ. What the bloody hell?

He arrives 15 minutes late. “Okay, guys, I just ran off your tests. Put your phones, books, food, away, and you have the rest of the period to take this.”

The tests are passed out. I take one look. I’m ready for this. I breeze through the essays, short answer, I.D’s, multiple choice. The multiple choice are actually the hardest questions, to be honest. I review everything and fold in my essay on the lined paper. I make sure to step carefully over the backpacks. Because his room is so small, everything is really close together. I pretend I’m a student with an excellent set of values and hand my paper to him.

He looks up. He’s wearing a blue shirt today that brings out his eyes. He has really nice eyes. When he looks at you, he almost looks brooding, until he sees the person he’s looking at. He whispers, “Thanks Alice.” I nod, try not to smile, and head towards my seat.

I quietly open my bag and pull out my book. It’s Different Seasons by Stephen King. I don’t typically read too many American authors, but Dad really recommended I try it. He can be very good. His short stories are best because he knows when to stop writing. Shawshank Redemption is Dad’s favorite story in there, but it’s honestly kind of overrated. Apt Pupil is really terrifying. It’s about a boy who meets an ex-Nazi and his grades fall and they get into this really twisted relationship. While I read, I try to hide the fact that I’m blushing. I really don’t know anyone else who does it at this magnitude. Sometimes I blush so much my face stings. Maybe people will see it’s a scary book and think I’m really invested in the story. Blushing makes my face look like ten times bigger anyway, and I really don’t need people staring at my cheeks.

The bell rings. Everyone floods back into the hallway. Victoire trails behind me.

“ Alice, I cannot believe he gave us that test! It was SO HARD! He really needed to be more fair about it! Who the hell is Sally Tompkins anyway?”

“She was a Confederate nurse and one of the members of the Lady Robertson hospital.”

“How the fuck did you know that? Oh my god. I studied so hard for that! What the hell! Where are you headed?”

“Latin.”

“Cool. I’ll see you at lunch I guess. And at the play reading! Oh my god I’m so excited!”

“I know. Yeah, me too! I’ll see you then.”

She walks, no, galvanizes down the hallway. I’m thinking about last month, when Mr. Wilson read my A+ journal to the class about a family that moves to the plains during Western expansion, and that word was in there. I’m thinking about this on the way to Latin and feeling way too excited. I have a full day of classes, bitch. STOP.

Latin is fine, Earth Science is completely pointless. All we talk about in there are rocks. I try to find meaning in sediment and stalactites and stalagmites, but I just can’t. There is more meaning in Algebra than there ever is in stupid rocks. I can’t wait until we get to space. Stars seem more exciting anyway.

I am really thrilled when the bell rings for Algebra. I’m actually not too bad at maths this year. Then lunch.

We have a seat in the quad, parallel to a birch tree. It’s kind of rare that we have it, but Fabian’s in Year Eleven, and he’s really good at getting all kinds of things for upperclassmen: pot, ecstasy, and other illegal drugs, as well as Marlboros for people low on cash or lacking motivation to go out and buy it themselves. Fabian Martin also turned 16 last week. His parents took him out and let him order really expensive beer, so now it’s all he talks about. He’s actually kept the bottle, and he brings it filled with alcohol to lunch today. He thinks Victoire will be impressed. Sometimes she is, actually. But today’s a good day.

“Hey, Vicky.” He lays his feet on the wooden table. I cringe, thinking about the poor table harmed in this action. He’s wearing Balenciaga high-top sneakers with heels. They leave scratches on the table. He quenches his inexhaustible thirst by discreetly shoving the bottle up his throat. I hope he chokes and dies.

“Hey,” Victoire sits down, crosses her albino Kate Moss legs. Her penciled eyebrows furrow as she takes a sip of Diet Snapple Lemon Tea. Got to preserve those vocal chords. “What?”

“I said, hey.” Our Fabian is getting irritated. “Don’t you notice?”

“Notice what?”

“I’m drinking fucking Samuel Adams, bitch!”

“Oh! The beer you got for your birthday! Sorry, I was just….” Victoire is laughing to hard to come up with an answer.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s just, come on Fabian! You’re sixteen, we know, everyone drinks beer for their birthday. You already shared it on your Instagram anyway!”

“I know, Fabian, like no one really gives a fuck!” Catie Patel adds, also laughing. She’s eating one of those pretzel and hummus containers, pausing between crunching to observe Victoire’s reaction. She understands Victoire would rather undertake the ridicule of Fabian on her own terms when she receives an annoyed glare from her. Maybe she’ll be quiet for once.

“Fabian, you have to realize you are being incredibly sexist.” Charlotte chimes in between bites of ham and cheese sandwich. “Girls have brains too, and they don’t appreciate it when you are being an MCP. That’s male chauvinistic pig, in case you were unsure.”

“I was sure, Charlotte.” Fabian retorts. He turns to look at Rosie and me. “Well, do you guys have anything to say about me? That I’m an MCP?”

Rosie saves me. “No, Fabian, I don’t have anything to say to you. Why don’t you leave and come back when you aren’t intoxicated? We’re trying to eat lunch, and you’re being a dick.”

Fabian’s lined eyes focus on me. “Well, Alice. Your turn to express your opinion. What’s your say in all of this?”

Crap. They’re all staring at me. I’m holding a cheese sandwich on this really gross sprouted bread Mum bought. 418.4 kilojoules (100 calories) per 2 slice serving. 8 grams of fiber to get rid of any evidence you ate. As much as I hate Fabian, they are bullying him, and they do this a lot. “Um, well, I think that... we could... all be nicer to each other.”

“You know what, screw this, I’m leaving.” Fabian swings his feet off the table. “You’re not buying anything off me for a month!” He saunters off. It’s really his loss. Apparently Victoire is a phenomenal kisser, among other things.

“Alice, really, what kind of comeback is that?” Victoire turns to me. “You’re really just going to let him walk all over you?”

I want to say “You’re his girlfriend, you should be the one standing up for yourself.” But instead I say, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is not going to help you if you want to be seen as a strong woman in the world,” Charlotte claims. “It’s all about asserting yourself. There are numerous books on the subject, The Women’s Room, and the Feminine Mystique to name a few, all about female’s rights in a male-dominated world.”

We turn to Rosie, to see what she thinks. She takes a swig of her vegan spirulina protein shake before responding. “I don’t really understand what the fuck is going on right now. People are just giving too many fucks about things that don’t really matter at the end of the day.”

I’m riveted. Catie, Charlotte, and Victoire all have mixed opinions about Rosie. But I really, really like her right now.

The bell rings. Time for English. Rosie and I have this class together with Ms. Rowling as our teacher. Not only does she share a name with J.K Rowling, but she’s a fantastic teacher. Right now we are reading The Catcher in the Rye by J.D Salinger because our whole theme this year is called “the search for identity.” We have this theme because we are a few years away from Year 13, when we really have to think about our future. As far as the collective opinion in our class about the book, it’s pretty evenly split. Some people really like Holden and all of his idiosyncrasies (distinctive or peculiar features of a particular character), other people just can’t stand him. Rosie is one of them. Yesterday, when we were talking at our tables about the first half of the book, Rosie could not stop talking about how much she hated Holden. “He’s just a lazy asshole who just wanders around New York for a few days and can’t make a lasting decision about anything.” Rosie is really type A. I would never say this to her, but I really like the book. I don’t worship Holden, like some people do, but I find that I’ve been able to relate to him more and more. It’s not always the childhood vs. adult thing either. It’s his voice. It’s starting to become mine. Where it just picks at you. I’ve been feeling it every day, every hour, almost every second.

The bell rings again. I stop by my locker to get The Glass Menagerie for theatre class. At Westchester Academy, all of the kids who take acting as an elective have to participate in at least one school production per year. We had auditions on Friday, when To Kill a Mockingbird was still running. Mrs. Russell put the cast list up the same day. There are twelve people in our class, and there are four characters in the show. I got Laura, actually, and Victoire got Amanda. Victoire is very good. She’s been performing since she was six years old. She could do it professionally. We have to be careful though. There are four people in the class in Year Thirteen. One of them, Zachary Reed, got Tom, but the Gentleman Caller went to George Davis in Year Twelve. And no one ever in Year Nine gets parts like this. A lot of people think it’s because Mrs. Russell is our advisor. I would never say this out loud, but the seniors are a bit mediocre anyway. I know that’s really awful to think, but Victoire is really good, and I have been doing this for awhile.

As I’m opening my locker and reaching for my script, a note falls on the floor. It’s handwritten in slightly legible but very slanted script. Hey Alice. I saw you in To Kill A Mockingbird this weekend. It was great! I’m free after school, if you want to talk. - Mr. Wilson.

I can feel my cheeks. They’re red and stinging. I want to smile, I really really want to smile, but Victoire is walking towards me.

“Alice, what are you doing? Wait, hold on.” She’s sprinting towards me. “What’s that? There, in your hand?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” We begin to speed walk towards the theatre. I try to put the letter away but she takes it from me and begins to read. Crapcrapcrapcrapshitshitshitfuckfuckfuck. Oh my god. STOP EVERYTHING! PLEASE! HELP ME!

“He wants to talk?!” she exclaims. I’m nearly running to the theatre. Why did they feel the need to make it so far away from the rest of the school? “He wants to talk?” Alice, how long has this been going on?!”

“Only a month.”

“ALICE!”

“What, Victoire?”

“You’ve been having exchanges with a male teacher for a whole month and you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Victoire, they’re not exchanges.”

“Well, what else would they be? You’re communicating with a person besides yourself, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but...not like that.”

“It’s okay Alice, you don’t have to blush. You can tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell!”

“You think he’s hot, don’t you?”

“Shut up, Victoire!”

“It’s okay, Alice! You don’t have to get so defensive!”

“I’m not being defensive!” We reach the door of Mrs. Russell’s classroom. “I swear Victoire, if you say anything about this in theatre class today, I’m going to…

“Relax, Alice, I won’t.” She has that look on her face. That scheming look. It works really well when you’re in primary school and need something to do besides wall-ball at recess time. It doesn’t work when you’re fourteen and are trying to hide your feelings for a teacher from yourself the rest of the world. “But when we meet this weekend, at Rosie’s, we’ll think of something. You’re NOT backing out of this, if that’s what you think.” Backing out of what? My heart drops to the floor, slinks away to hide in the washroom for an eternity. However, Alice Clarke opens the door to the black box, Victoire following close behind.

“There you are!” Mrs. Russell gestures to two empty chairs on the stage. “You have your scripts, I’m presuming.”

“Yes.” we say unanimously.

“Great! We can get started.” Mrs. Russell joins us in the circle. She’s constantly messing with her hair, and now, instead of long, flowing red, she has it dyed brown and chopped bluntly at her shoulders. She wears dark glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Ever since I saw Wicked, she’s always reminded me of Elphaba.

We begin the reading. The girls in Year 13 are getting really irritated. Any time Victoire or I has a line, they always take a sip of their water or look down at their nails. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me, but I’m really afraid of Tina Spencer. She’s been performing way longer than we have, and she was always late for To Kill a Mockingbird rehearsals because she had some sort of photo shoot or resume thing to do. Victoire is doing that right now. I asked my mum, but of course, she hasn’t really gotten back to me about it.

Overall though, the reading is good. I really like the story and the way it’s set up. Every now and then Mrs. Russell pauses and explain logistics about the set and such. We’re going to need a screen to project the allegories and everything, and the tech people are going to really analyse the script for light and sound and such. I do everything I can to “be Laura” and place myself in her situation. It’s not that hard, actually. Her mum (Victoire) is forcing her to do something with her life she’s not sure she wants. If I were in her place, I would perfectly understand sitting around with glass animals all day. It’s a nice alternative to everything.

The bell rings. Just as I’m about to get up and escape, Victoire walks by and whispers “Have fun with Haigan today.”

I’m going to cry. Or throw up. I speed-walk to the washroom with my head down. No one’s in there. I head to the smallest stall. If you go to the big one, everyone knows you’re crying or doing something sketchy with substances and such. I cry into my uniform. I can tell by the way my tears are falling and the way I’m gasping that my body wants me to be in here crying for at least twenty minutes. But I have to deal with it because I want need to meet with Mr. Wilson.

My hands reach up and scratch my face in one long, hard motion. Then they scribble all over the original marks. I look up at the stall door, panting, my hair still intact. I open the door, walk over to the sink. My face looks like a child’s drawing. I can fix it with soap and water. But I’m free. I give my palms four more sharp clenches. I’ve been doing this for months, and I would think things would get to the point where my hands are bleeding. They haven’t yet.


	3. During and After The Meeting

I step out of the bathroom and hike all the way back to the main building. I’m trying to get myself to really understand the natural beauty of birch trees in the springtime. Just look at those leaves! How friendly it all seems. Mr. Wilson’s probably waiting. For WHAT though? I need to STOP. Breathe. In. Out. NOT too fast. In. Out. 

I’m back in front of his windowless classroom. I manage to get all the way in the door before he looks up, and his chiseled, Anglo-Saxon face with its blue eyes land on my hazel ones.

“Hey Alice!” he exclaims, pausing to scribble a grade on a Civil War test.

“Hi.” I pull out a chair from next to the telly and sit down at his desk, watching his pen draw a circle around the number. 98.

“This one’s yours,” he says, folding it and putting it on top of a finished pile of inked pages. “Highest in the class.”

“Oh good!” I reply, hoping I don’t give too much of an opinion. My hands want to fly up and freak out. I keep them clenched and resting on my thighs . My squishy flabby fucking rhino thighs.

“You’re welcome to stay after school, if you want. We don’t have soccer SOCCER!! AWWW!!! THAT’S SO CUTE AND AMERICAN!!! practice today.”

“Whatever you want me to do is fine!” I reply, my eyes shooting out of my skull. Shit. That was way too much. Way too much. Eyes to my skirt. NOW.

“I’m okay with anything.” He’s smiling. His smile is beautiful. You know he’s American before he even says anything because they have these really good dentists across the pond. I feel a warmth I don’t ever remember feeling at this intensity. Oh my God. What the fuck?! What warmth? He can probably see me panicking. I’ve probably gone too far. I CAN’T push it any further.

“So how’s the play going?” Good for him. He knows when to change the subject. I know he’s thinking“Poor Alice, she doesn’t know how to be social. Plus she’s fat anyway, so she has to deal with that. Yikes. She could do so much better. Jonathan Wilson, football coach and history teacher of Westchester Academy, to the rescue with my sexy abs and smile and intelligence and personality.”

“Good, yeah, good. I like, um, how the images and symbolism of the story are projected on the screen. I’ve never done a play like that before.”

“It’s The Glass Menagerie, right?”

“Yeah! Uhuh.” I’m nodding my head. I dig my nails into my skin as deep as they can go.

“And you’re Laura, right?”

“Yeah.” I’m smiling. I can’t help it now.

“That’s awesome. I know that there are a lot of seniors, oh wait, sorry, uh…. (he’s laughing. He looks down and brushes back his short, silky dark brown hair when he laughs. AND HE BLUSHES LIKE ME!!! It’s SO ADORABLE AND HOT!) In America they call their last year of high school senior year. I meant people in Year 13. Anyway, I know it means you’re really talented.”

“Oh well...Victoire got in too.”

“She did?! That’s great! I haven’t read the play in a long time, but I guess that means she’s...oh what’s her name…

“Amanda?”

“Right! Yes! Amanda! I haven’t read that play since high school, but...I remember it was really good. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Great! I hope you like it.”

“Yeah! Well..um.. I mean, this is kind of off-topic, but I’m still kind of in awe about your journals we wrote last month, I mean they were really He’s LOOKING DOWN AGAIN!!!…..really good. You’re an amazing writer, and that’s not something I tell people that often.He’s lying, bitch. Do you want to be a writer when you grow up?”

“I mean..well..I’ve thought about it before, but I’m still not really sure what exactly I want to do.”

“Well, you probably already know this, but don’t worry about it. It’s definitely not something you have to figure out now, even if people tell you that. For a long time, I wasn’t really sure.”

Here’s my burning question. I’ve been telling myself no for weeks, but I’ve been thinking about it so much that I actually feel ready to ask. “Um... How did you decide what you wanted to do?”

“Um...let’s see… Dear Mr Wilson, I’m so sorry I know I’m taking time out of your day you have a wife and kids and attractive female football players to worry about you don’t have time and you shouldn't make time for me I’m a slutty bitch I’mosososorry. Love your biggest fan Alice Clarke. Fuck. my. life. “I actually thought about acting for awhile...I was nowhere near as involved as you are, but I did it through middle school and my freshman year of high school, wait...you don’t know what any of that means. Okay... Basically, I did it when I was young, but I decided to focus my time on sports later in school. I played soccer, or I guess football, and basketball. I mean, I was pretty good, and my whole family is really into sports. I actually got a few college scholarships for soccer, and I really thought that was what I wanted. But then I just changed my mind and decided I wanted to study psychology so I could be a guidance counselor (You would be such a good guidance counselor Mr. Wilson I would really recommend you because you’re so friendly and insightful and hot and I want to kiss you so so badly). I was accepted at UVA and started taking all of these psychology classes. I really liked everything about them. But, the one class that changed everything for me, and I guess led me to where I am now, was this class all about the psychology of James Madison. As we’ve studied, you know he was very meek and quiet and everything, and now…. with televisions and media and everything, he would probably not succeed as president. But at heart, he’s a really, really good statesmen, and he was exactly what the country needed. That made me change my major to history. I got to study abroad at Oxford for two years, I got a couple of friends from high school, we backpacked around Europe, and I found a couple of teaching and coaching positions at different prep and boarding schools, and then I got the job here, you know..had a family...then yeah.” He looks back at me. Our eyes meet again. “So I what I’m saying is, you don’t have to decide right away. Life just sort of takes its course sometimes.” He looks down at his watch, which is on his left wrist, next to his FitBit (You don’t need a FitBit Jonathan. I will accept you no matter what. Less Crossfit and gym routines mean more time for conversations like this. By the rain. and the fireplace. And John Oliver on the telly. With tea. And reading. I love you). “Yeah, okay.” He gets up from his chair, grabs his gym bag and a battered, sticky-noted copy of The Civil War: a Narrative by Shelby Foote. He’s so smart. “Sorry Alice. I have to go and meet my wife at an art show she’s hosting. She’s a museum curator, and these shows are always a big deal. This one is a collection of pictures of southern women in the Civil War. It’s really cool, actually. It’s something I think you might be interested in. You’re welcome to come, it’s just a few blocks from here.”

“That sounds really interesting, but I think I have to be getting home. I just have some studying to do.”

“Oh yeah, okay, that’s no problem at all! My wife is actually meeting me outside, if you want to come with me.”

Oh my god his wife his wife she’ll hate me oh no no no. “Oh, sure, if it’s not any inconvenience!”

“It’s not an inconvenience at all.” He waits for me as I get up and lug my bookbag onto my back and push the chair back up against the T.V. I wonder if he thinks of it as my chair. I follow him outside the classroom and through the double-doors. He holds the door for me OH MY GOD HE HELD THE DOOR FOR ME!!!! , I thank him. We walk past the lovely birch trees, our quad table, the football field. We’re silent. I’m clenching my palms. I’m supposed to be thinking of things to say, to move the conversation along. I can’t think of anything. I pretend to see something amazing in those bloody birch trees, or the sun, or the grass, or sky, or anything. I’m not thinking of death. Or cutting. Or people being smashed into walls and their necks twisted around, blood on the floor. 911 call. It’s progress versus regression, at least.

We get to the back parking lot. His wife is waiting by the bikes. She’s standing in front of mine. OH MY GOD WHAT IF SHE KNOWS IT’S MINE!? She’s gorgeous. Way prettier than I could will ever be. She’s tall, but not quite as tall as him. Thin, but with muscle, like she makes time for the gym at least six times a week. On the other day she does yoga or six mile runs in the park. Or something. She has really long, flowing brown hair that covers her visible but unobtrusive chest. She’s wearing one of those magenta, short-sleeved sweater dresses that emphasizes her figure. Nothing to hide. She pairs it with black, yoga-style leggings and black, knee-high boots. Piercing blue eyes. They notice everything. Incredibly intelligent. I think they met at university. Or no, after college, through friends. I think it was the backpacking trip.

“Hey Laurel,” Mr. Wilson faces turns to his wife.

“Hey.” She’s looking at me. Mr. Wilson remembers I’m here and begins to make an introduction.

“This is Alice Clarke, one of my U.S Honors students.”

“Hi, nice to meet you.” We shake hands. Her smile doesn’t show teeth. Like the ones my Dad gives to our neighbours when they tell him he has the volume up too loud on the telly when he’s been watching Manchester United beat Liverpool LFC for an entire night.

“Alice and I were just talking after school. Right now she’s the top student in all three of my classes, and she’s an unbelievable writer too.”

“Wow, that’s great!” she exclaims. I don’t think she thinks it’s all that great. My chest tightens. My eyes swim.

“Are you okay, Alice?” Wilson looks at me. CRAP HIS BROWS ARE FURROWED IT WILL NEVER WORK OUT!!! He’s waiting for me to explode. Or scream. I look up immediately.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine! I smile. “Just tired, is all.”

“Okay,” He smiles, looks down again. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow Alice. Great job on your test again!”

“Thank you. Have a good evening!”

“Bye.” CRAP ALICE WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU “GOOD EVENING!” YOU IDIOT! HE REALLY HATES YOU NOW!!!

Wilson and Laurel head off in the direction of the museum. I get on my bike and watch them go, pretending I care about my other obligations. Well, I do care, actually. I have a huge translation to do for Latin, 5 chapters in The Catcher in the Rye, an Earth Science Worksheet (ew), maths homework, and a reflection on my character thus far in The Glass Menagerie. But I’m hyperventilating, I’m close to crying, and I feel shaky and sick. I could definitely burn more calories, anyway. JUST DO IT. Like that Nike shirt I used to own when I was skinny at the beginning of this year. Than I gained 1.4 stone. My Mom doctor doesn’t like me anymore. Neither does 75% of my closet. Okay, now I’m crying, REALLY hard. I whip around, check all four corners surrounding my frame. No one’s here. I use the palm of my hands, now hard and red, to swipe away my tears. I need to figure this out.

I head towards the museum. Yorkshire has a lot of these walls with all of this shrubbery completely covering them. When Victoire and I first became friends, in Year Five, and she lived right in the town before her dad got really rich, we used to play all kinds of pretend games. Our favorite one was Lisel and Freida, the story of two German girls in World War II. I was Lisel, the Jewish girl who needed to escape all of our other friends, who were brainwashed by Hitler Youth and their parents wanted to kill my family. For some reason, my family decided to leave me in the hands of Freida, my irresponsible best friend and the best runner at our “school”. Anyway, we would pretend that this wall was part of the forbidden forest that no one would dare enter, but we had to because otherwise I would die, so Victoire would always stand there with her arms outstretched, ready to embrace her best friend into safety. Back in fifth form, I wasn’t a terrible tree climber, and I was sort of skinny that year too. There was hope for me. I would get over the wall and hang there for a few seconds, until my hands slipped from the shrubbery. I fell down , down, and Victoire would catch me. Every time. It was around that time when I became surprised that she still would. It was also around the time Victoire stopped inviting me to all of the sleepovers. I think it’s because she got a boyfriend and so did all of our other friends and I didn’t have one. Or maybe there was another reason. Maybe it’s that I didn’t understand that Syphilis was an STI, or that I didn’t even understand what an STI was. Well anyway, I had no friends at the beginning of sixth form, and it really was a special kind of hell. A hell with cloudy skies, birch trees, and a body dripping in my chocolate sins after each bad day. The only sources of light were my Harry Potter books, but those candles blew out every time I shut the book and realised Harry, Ron, and Hermione, had no idea who I was. And even if they somehow did, they wouldn’t give a fuck about me, Alice Jane Clarke. Alice. Like that girl who fell down the fucking rabbit hole. Painted those roses red. At least she was decent-looking. An entire kingdom thought so.

I’m riding behind the forbidden forest when I hear voices. It’s a relatively quiet time of day, with no one in school or anything, so they’re trying to keep their voices down. But even though I’m behind concrete, I can tell keeping quiet is difficult for them.

“They don’t mean, anything, Laurel, I can’t believe you’re being so ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous? You’re going to say that to me? I get it Jonathan, you’re a teacher, she’s your best student, but really, every Monday for a month? You’re not her counselor.”

“I don’t see what’s so bad about it! I talk to students all the time! We don’t talk about anything really personal!”

“Okay, well I just wonder about her. She looks like trouble. Best friends with that Elton girl. That whole group is trouble. They all dye their hair too.”

“So? What does it matter who she hangs out with? I thought I was the one obsessed with her!”

“John, don’t blame me for wondering why you talk to her so much. She doesn’t play soccer, she doesn’t even come to any of the games!”

“It’s England, no one cares about high school sports!”

“You seem to… They’ve stopped moving. She’s holding back a cry. I stop the bike, press my ear against the concrete. You’re just, with her so much.”

“And I’m not with you? Laurel, I’m walking with you right now to one of your art shows when you know I’d much rather be reading Undaunted Courage and watching LFC beat Manchester United.” He’s laughing to ease the tension.

“Well, you could do a much better job of showing us that!” she spits. “The kids are always asking about you and where you might be.”

“Every Monday? Laurel, I’m hardly ever home right after school! Laurel, please don’t worry about this. She’s just a quiet, harmless kid, she’s just figuring things out, like anyone her age.”

“Figuring things out? What things? Her feelings for you?” She’s raised her voice. You know what, Jonathan? We are in a relationship, and I’m not going to accept you making these exchanges with a fourteen year old girl you hardly know. You could be arrested.”

“Arrested? Really Laurel, arrested? She’s a sensitive girl! I think they’d appreciate me trying to talk to her!”

“If she’s so sensitive and vulnerable, she should see a therapist,” she says icily.

“I cannot believe this. You’re being so unreasonable!”

“I mean what I say, Jonathan. Things won’t be good if you keep seeing her.”

“Forget about your art show, Laurel. I can’t believe this, I think I have to..”

“Wait, John…..” Silence. He heads to his house. I wait until I can hear her boots walking away, to her civil war project. When she leaves, I slide down against the concrete, my hair almost blending into the shrubs. But not quite. I scream into my sweater, then look up. And elderly man is stepping out of his house, to do his elderly thing. I think it’s bingo, but I’m not entirely sure. It doesn’t fucking matter, even though I’m supposed to care about other people. I get up, my bum totally covered in dirt, onto the bike, and head back to my house. Turn right, past the school, along the perimeter of the river. It’s still light, so the streetlights aren’t on yet. Past Victoire’s house, more fields, and finally, mine.


	4. In Which The Eating Disorder And Scratching Get Real

My head is tense. I feel pale. I walk my bike into the garage, park it far enough away not to block Mum’s ridiculous new car when it pulls into the garage. I can’t get over how big it is. Takes up all the space. I step inside. I’m in the kitchen. I know where I should be going. To my room. I should open my book to page 58 in Catcher in the Rye and finish the book. But somehow, those thoughts don’t register. My body walks I walk to the fridge. Open it. If anything, I should at least be in my bathroom. One time, when my parents were gone to see U2 for the weekend I had to stay home with Molly. I had a lab report and a “socratic seminar” to prepare for. But somehow I managed to squeeze in a 2 hour binge. When I was done I walked to the washroom and lifted up the toilet seat. I don’t remember how long I was there, but I was thinking of doing it. I had my toothbrush in my left hand as I was gripping the sides of the toilet. I had my mouth open and I was kind of making these sounds, like I was going to throw up. But then I realised what I wanted to do and I sort of sat back and cried.

Back when I was twelve, we had to take a health class along with our physical education. One of the units had to do with taking care of our bodies, nutrition, exercise, etc. They went on and on about BMI and using Fitness Trackers and Calorie Counters and fat and sugar and everything, and then on the last day they showed us the eating disorders: anorexia and bulimia. For anorexia they had this girl and she was really super skinny with her ribs sticking out and everything, and she was looking in the mirror and this fat girl was staring back at her. They talk about how she cuts her food up into tiny pieces and doesn’t see how she really looks so she dies. To the right they had a picture of a girl with bulimia. She looked slightly normal. They didn’t show her actually throwing up or anything, but she was sitting near a toilet with all of these laxatives and a toothbrush in her hand. They talk about how she eats too much before she purges but then she gets gingivitis and dies. “No dying,” they said. “That’s bad. You don’t get anywhere or accomplish anything if you die.” I remember very clearly not wanting to ever do that. And I don’t know. I’ve heard things, like some people just really can’t stand their own vomit, so they have to do other things.

Charlotte Bennett, I know, is a purger. I came into the washroom one day after rehearsal and heard echoing vomiting noises. It’s honestly one of the worst sounds out there apart from Laurel Wilson's voice. I didn’t think it was her at first. I thought it was Tina Spencer, because Victoire told me something, like she might have ana or mia, but she’s always saying things like that about Tina. I almost cried when I saw the back of pink Doc Martens peeking out from the stall. She stopped the noises and flushed the toilet. Stumbled out of the stall. Tears, blush, and Maybelline mascara stained her face. I did everything physically possible to turn away and look as if I had another reason to be there (Look, it’s my white trash costume for Mayella!). But she kept staring at me. Idiot that I am, I turned to look at her.

“Alice, she trembled….Don’t…”

“I won’t,” I assured, eyes wide. I guess she believed me. We never spoke of it again.

This is what I think about when I open the fridge and take out the Skippy. The oven says a quarter past five. I’m home early. They won’t be home for an hour.

I open the pantry. I know we have Walkers in there for Dad, the long rectangular ones with the holes in them called Fingers. And chocolate chips. Mum started buying vegan ones. I take out 3 chips and eat them one by one. I used to be like those women in those commercials who “savor the indulgence” or whatever. Then I grab a handful. Throw it in the little white bowl with green flowers. Put it in the microwave. Heat for about 1 minute. I take it out, stir, but the chocolate is stuck to the bottom of it so you can’t stir it around. I put it in the counter, using my fingers to scrape the sides. I grab another handful from the bag and put it on the plate. I take out four biscuits and put them on the plate. The serving size is two. I know this. I put two back in the package. I open the Skippy. My brain is beginning to know better. It sees the chocolate chips on the plate and immediately remembers it’s 1 oz per serving. Ungodly amount of fat. I’m doing the same thing with the Skippy. I use my pointer fingertip to measure and divide it between the two biscuits, like the lady from the Vegan Happiness program. My Mum is always making me read her books and watch her show for inspiration. But then I stop.

You bitch. You fucking bitch. Don’t try to cross any of this out now. You need to hear this. Yes, that’s right. Your former self. Or rather, the self you were so close to becoming. You were so, so close. Remember that. So close, until today. Until you ruined everything with Haigan. I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY! I TOLD YOU EVERY DAY! BUT YOU DIDN’T LISTEN YOU FUCKING SLUT! BITCH! NOW YOU’VE BROKEN HIS MARRIAGE!! You have EVERYTHING wrong about Laurel. She’s trying to HELP you. Wilson is wrong. Men can be wrong. It’s in every feminist book Charlotte ever gave you….. NO!!! DON’T YOU DARE!!! DON’T YOU DARE CALL HER A HYPOCRITE. SHE HAS AN ILLNESS. SHE’S STRUGGLING RIGHT NOW. YOU JUST NEED TO FUCKING…….STOP!

With that I gave myself five slaps on the my right thigh, hitting it hard enough to try and leave a handprint. It doesn’t. It must be the fat. Then ten sharp scratches, long and sharp like a tiger’s, on each arm. But I’m crying too hard to do anything else. I’m hyperventilating hard and fast. It’s half past five. I grab three more biscuits from the package, put it away, use my fingers to claw peanut butter out of the jar. Screw it fast, put the food in their proper places. I grab the plate, run upstairs, slam the door. My face is red, and my hair is sticking to my face. I chew, shove, swallow all of the contents on my plate. I cough, nearly choke on the last two biscuits. I wish I did. Died on the floor of my room, near the left side of my bed. Let’s just hope they don’t find a biscuit in my mouth.

I look back to my desk. It’s white. I’ve had it since I was ten, when assignments began to get more rigorous. The plate is there. It’s empty, save a few crumbs and smears of peanut butter. 1 chip remains. I eat it.

I think for a second. I see the butter knife stained with peanut butter, flung across to the middle of the desk where I work.

I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes. My alarm says I have fifteen minutes until they come home. My stomach lurches. I have so many dishes to take care of. I could hide them. Like the others. FUCK YOU! I grab the plate from my desk and the butter knife, speed walk them downstairs. My stomach exploding out of my uniform. I wash the dishes best I can, with soap and water. Chocolate is really a bitch to get off of plates and things. Peanut butter can be, if you use it often enough. I’m scrubbing and putting everything away. I walk over to the knife cabinet.

Ever since they talked about suicide and bullying and everything when I was twelve, I remember looking at those knives and seeing really what they could be used for. I thought of those rail-thin gothic angel or emo types, the outcasts. Today was bad, REALLY REALLY bad. I grab the steak knife at the far right of all of the other knives. I hold it like they tell you to hold scissors. I’m trembling, hyperventilating, all of it. And I can’t. I speed walk it upstairs. I place it on the bathroom sink. Well, no. Bad idea. Don’t put it near the toothbrush, someone might see. I put in in the cabinet below the sink, behind the puberty kit my Mum gave me when I turned twelve. Everything’s still in it, even the deoderant. I could use it, but I always forget.


	5. In Which Mother And Daughter Chat And Things Happen

I hear her car pull up the driveway. Over the dirt road and any innocent creatures who happen to reside on it. Molly’s in there too. I look in the mirror. I look like crap. Nothing all that new. I go to my room, change out of my uniform into galaxy-print leggings and a Cavern Club t-shirt. I want sweatpants I have to wear leggings because slim people keep one pair of jeans from middle or high school and if it doesn’t fit, they do something about it. Thought I’d give it a try. I open my Latin book to page 180. It’s a translation, something about what everyone’s doing after King Cogidubnus has been killed. My pencil is sharp. I find the verb, work my way around. But my stomach is filled with too much crap for me to care. NO!! THIS CAN’T BE YOU BITCH!!! FUCK EVERYTHING!!!

The door opens. “Hello,” Mum calls.

I’m trying to think of an answer. There has to be a right way.

“Alice? Are you home?”

My head’s heavy. My stomach protrudes, rolls down like animal skin a butcher would cut. I stare at what I’ve produced on the line pages. Three and a half sentences.

“Where is she? I’ve called her three times.” She’s marching up the stairs. Molly decides to follow. She knocks on my door.

“Come in.”

The door opens. “Alice, didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“She’s just pretending not to hear you!” Molly exclaims from outside my bedroom door.

“Molly, please go to your room.” Thank god. Mum comes into the doorway.

“I mean really Alice, what are you doing that is so important?” She observes my backpack, the papers on my desk and floor.

“Latin homework, I guess.”

“Last week you told me those translations were a breeze.”

“This one’s a bit long.”

“Well, you should still make an effort to answer when I call you.” My upper body tightens. I look down at the carpet. I used to imagine little people lived in that carpet. I’m a little person running through the carpet-forest. I run, far, far, far, until I hit the door and see the light underneath. I turn back around.

“Alice, I’m talking to you. What’s that?” I look up from my carpet fantasy. she’s pointing to a little white bowl. Oh SHIT. Yeah, a really good time to say that now.

“It’s a little bowl I use for...putting hair ties in.”

“Then why does it look like there was chocolate in it?” she asks. “Have you been eating up here?”

“Um…..” Her mouth is gaping open. You could take my pencil case and pour the contents down her throat, with all of the sharp pencil lead poking at her tongue and sliding down her esophagus. “Sometimes I do.”

“What have I told you about doing that? You’ll get bugs up here!”

“Sorry.”

“You seem to be saying that a lot lately, Alice. And I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, but your attitude needs to stop.”

Before, I would explode. Present my case. But now I stare at the floor. I try to daydream about Latin or carpet-people, but I can’t. My eyes only swim. “Okay.”

“That’s all you’re going to say, isn’t it?” Oh no. She’s holding back a cry. I would help her, I really would, BUT WHAT THE FUCK WOULD YOU HAVE TO SAY?! “Fine. (Don’tjustsitthereDOSOMETHING!!) There’s leftovers downstairs, if you still want anything.” She ends up loudly shutting the door behind her. A professional slam.

I’m hyperventilating yet again. If I want to be able to complete everything I have to do, then I have to pretend to be somebody else. It worked well for me when I was little. I was pretty bad at maths, and my parents were really pretty angry about it. They got me a tutor and everything, but whenever I felt I was stretching my absolute limits in long division, I would just pretend to be a genius. It’s worked pretty well.

So right now, as I complete my Latin homework, I think I’ll be Princess Mary since she was pretty good at it. She was Henry’s first daughter when he was with Catherine of Aragon, and she would have been queen, except then he married Anne Boleyn who had Elizabeth I. It’s a lot more complicated than that, and I should remember all of the details since I did a project on it last year for British History class. That was before I had Mr. Wilson-WHO PROBABLY DOESN’T EVER WANT TO TALK TO YOU AGAIN!! Oh crap. That didn’t work. Well, at least I finished my Latin homework. I look over it. It’s mostly right, except for that one word. I’m not sure what it means.

I decide to get through my maths, Earth Science, and character reflection (obviously), as Laura Wingfield. I imagine Laura to be pretty smart. She probably would have been a great secretary, if she didn’t have all of those things holding her back. I was able to get through my homework, not even thinking about the food that awaited me downstairs. After I completed all of that, all I had left to do was read Catcher, but I was actually really light headed and hungry, and it was a quarter past eight.

This is the hardest part for me. Acting as your character when you’re fat and have had a “toxic” and “addictive” relationship to food for so long. You know what your character would eat, but Alice Clarke comes in and ruins everything. She WON’T do that tonight. She better not.

I open the refrigerator and pull out my dinner. It’s sauteed kale and a baked potato with tofu-walnut sauce. Mum’s favorite recipe from the Vegan Happiness Cooknook. I get about halfway through as Laura, and then I think about what she would do next. She probably wouldn’t give a fuck about what she was eating anyway. The whole act of chewing and swallowing and digesting things probably made her sick. I think her nerves probably got the better of her most of the time, since she was so thin. I concentrate on what I ate before and tell myself it was too much. I get the feeling to go all the way to my hands so they start to shake, like Laura’s, so I walk myself over to the sink and clear my plate, watching the vegetables fall down the disposal, never to be seen again. I push saliva all around my mouth to eliminate cravings before I go to bed. I walk upstairs.

After finishing Catcher, I realize I had done everything. I feel good. Good enough that I pull out my laptop with the flowers on it. I get out my phone and earbuds from my bookbag too. I scroll through the albums. I select Ellie Goulding’s Lights. I play Lights, Starry Eyed, and Animal from that, and Burn from her album Halcyon Days. Then my chest tightens. I remember everything. CRAP!!!! YOU IDIOT YOU’RE DEAD YOU’RE DEAD YOU’RE SO DEAD!! But then I look at my phone: 10:02. I can’t be like this before bed.

I walk to my bathroom and turn the shower on. I get it so where I can step inside without burning myself. Then the heat comes on. I already showered this morning, but my stomach is bloated, so bloated that even 100 crunches won’t fix it. Then the words just fall out of my mouth. They fly up to the shower head youfuckingbitchihateyouhateyourselfdon’ttalkaboutityoucan’ttalkaboutit and then sweep back down and hit the wall behind me hedoesen’tloveyouheshoudln’tloveyouhedoesn’teven likeyouyoushoulddiediediebutthepainshouldlastlongerstupidulgybitchslutuglyfatbitchbabyDON’TYOUFUCKINGCRAVEIT. I bite my tongue. Hard enough so it begins to bleed. The cravings aren’t there. I turn off the shower.

I grab a towel and head to my room, wiping the blood off my tongue. I change back into my leggings and tshirt. Head back to the bathroom, hang up the towel, brush my teeth, put in my retainer. I head back to my room, set my alarm, and read Apt Pupil before I go to sleep. It’s almost done. I get through about 20 pages before turning out the light. I fall into a deep, heavy sleep.


	6. The Plan Is Made

The week goes on. I go to class, hang out with my friends. Fabian hasn’t come back to our table. He probably won’t for the rest of the month. I’ve kept going to Wilson’s class. We’ve begun learning about Reconstruction. He’s even assigned us another journal. I work on it, turn it in. He doesn’t read mine to the class this time( and why the fuck should that ever matter?), and anytime he’s looking at us to explain something and his eyes naturally wander to the back row where I’m sitting, he immediately averts them. Every time I leave that class I have to go to the washroom to silent-cry, so I’ve been slightly late to Magistra Peterson’s class this whole week. She hasn’t asked questions though. She probably thinks it’s some high school girl thing. There are more dramatic girls in my class anyway.

At lunch on Friday we congregate on the quad, as usual. Victoire has that scheming look again.

“Okay,” she begins. “Just to clarify: We’re meeting at Rosie’s this weekend, right?”

“Yeah.” Rosie responds. She’s still drinking on of those spirulina shakes. This one includes rainbow kale and pomegranate powder.

“Has anyone thought about why we’re meeting at Rosie’s place, tonight?”

“No, Victoire, tell us!” Catie is nodding earnestly. Her eyes are bulging out. In my head she’s wrestling Victoire’s head with its blue hair like a dog. Whatever hair dye Victoire uses (I think it’s imported from the U.S, John Frieda? Or maybe that’s her shampoo), is how Catie Patel stays alive. When she’s a dog, at least.

“Well, Alice here has been keeping secrets from us.”

The table turns to look at me.

“Let’s stop and think for a second. Who do we know that lives on Harrison Lane?” Victoire raises her eyebrows here. “Who isn’t a student.”

Everyone’s stopping to think. “OH MY GOD!!” Charlotte proclaims. It sounds like she already knows.

“Charlotte, keep your voice down,” I glare at her.

“Mr. Wilson. Johnathan fucking Wilson. I knew it.”

“Oh my god.” I look down at my lunch. Kale salad sandwich with chickpeas and vegan mayo. It wants to fall apart anytime I touch it. I eat an apple instead.

“Third house on the left. I pass it every time I want to go to the record store and get more Nirvana albums.”

“I don’t like him.” I’m blushing.

“Oh my god, Alice, don’t be so ridiculous about it!” Victoire exclaims. “You’re just going to go to his house and see what he does!”

“What?!” I shriek. “I’m not going to do that!

“Oh relax, Alice, we’ll go with you!” She replies. As if that makes it all so much better. “And we’re not judging you or anything, Wilson is pretty hot.”

“Yeah, and he’s totally your type too.” Rosie chimes in after she finishes her protein shake.

“Wait, what? Really?” shut the fuck up it shouldn’t matter Alice

“Oh my god, yeah! I mean, you’re both intellectuals, you both love history no one else gives a fuck about, you’re both nice, and his wife’s a bitch.”

“Rosie! Oh my god!”

“Well don’t try to deny it, I mean it’s true,” she replies. “I saw her at the art show a few weeks ago. She was just glaring at all of us. For no reason at all!”

“And that’s all the more reason not to carry out Victoire’s stupid plan.”

“It’s not a stupid plan,” Catie proclaims, her eyes bullets through my skull.

“Alice, I know you’re nervous, but we’re all going to get to Rosie’s around seven or so,” Victoire says. “That gives us an hour to go over logistics before we actually get to his house.”

“But you’re going to be the one who actually does it,” Charlotte says. “It’s all about asserting your position.”

“To get a man?” I shriek. “No, absolutely not.”

“Oh my god, Alice, you didn’t actually think you would get to bang him or anything,” Victorie says. “Although, there is a chance you might get in a good snog session.”

“Okay.” My face is totally scarlett. I clench my palms, take a deep breath before asking “So, what exactly will I have to do?”

“THERE YOU GO!” Victoire screams, rubbing my shoulders with her left hand. “Okay, we’ve been talking, and we’re thinking that we’ll leave the house at half past seven. On Saturday Mr. Wilson is having this big football tournament, but it’s just over at Bodwell High, so he should probably get back to his house around then. There’s all these bushes outside, so we can hide in there until you get in. The side door near the house should be unlocked. You can test it with this.” She gestures to Rosie, who gives me an Allen wrench. “There’s all these instructions for how to do it on WikiHow. We can help you before we go.”

“We thought about having you go into the bedroom,” she adds. “But we thought it would be too risky. Like, who wants to walk in on Laurel Wilson going at it with him? I mean, that’s totally disgusting.”

I’m ready to vomit. I manage to croak, “So, what do I say when I get in the house?”

“Oh, this is the best part.” Victorie finishes the Diet Snapple she was drinking and throws it into the wastebasket near the birch tree.

“You’re going to go in there and just….. confess your feelings to him. I mean, you’ve been seeing him every week talking about feelings and shit...so..”

“Victoire!”

“What? It’s true. It’s easy. Just tell him how you feel. And then see what he does. And then tell us all about it.”

“Victoire, I can’t do that. I’ll get arrested.”

“Oh, stop being so bloody ridiculous! You won’t get arrested! My mum had a thing with a teacher once.”

“Oh my god!” Catie Patel’s eyes roll out of her head. Her mouth is open, revealing a collection of crooked teeth.

“It went on for about a year actually. He was her Literature professor. But then he moved back to Sweden.”

“That is the most pedophilic thing I think I’ve ever heard, oh my god,” Charlotte says.

“Yeah. It’s pretty interesting. We have to talk about it when Dad isn’t home. Anyway, you’ll get in, talk to him, tell us everything, maybe even set up a few dates. It’ll be good for you Alice. I mean, all you do, when you don’t hang out with us, is sit at home and read Iwish. When was the last time you’ve even snogged anyone?”

I’m blushing. “Um, never?”

“See, I told you. You’ll be fine, you’re not that ugly, he’ll like you. And if you don’t come…..well….that won’t happen. We’ll climb into your bedroom and drag you out of bed if that’s what it takes.” The bell rings. “Great! Conversation ended. I’ll see you at rehearsal!”

“Okay bye.”

We have our first real rehearsal for the Glass Menagerie today. We don’t really have an official set built yet, but Mrs. Russell did a lot of work with us to get everyone to remember our blocking. We only get to the first dinner scene before Mrs. Russell let us go early.

“I think she’s pregnant,” Victoire whispers as we grab our scripts to leave.

“What? No, of course she isn’t. I think she’s working on that horror film with her husband.”

“But she’s just been so hormonal lately. And I think it’s been affecting her work.”

“Victoire, you’re not making any sense. You’re basically saying we got those parts because she was pregnant?”

“I don’t know! I thought it would explain things a bit! Like maybe she’s going to sabotage Tina’s acting career. If she doesn’t get into at least two shows this year, there’s no chance of her getting into LAMDA.”

“Is that where you want to go?”

“Oh hell no. It’s good, but far too mainstream. I couldn’t give you specifics, but there are far better ones out there, and ones where there’s no chance I would ever see or hear of Slutty Spencer ever again.” She takes out two sticks of gum from her pocket. She offers me one. I refuse. She puts both in her mouth. “Did you hear those sounds yesterday?”

“What sounds?”

“The ones from the washroom, in the theatre. Like puking sounds.” Oh my god. Charlotte.

“Did you go in there?’

“Are you mad? Absolutely not, that’s bloody disgusting.”

“But you think it’s Tina?”

“Oh yeah, absolutely. Who else would it be?”

We walk over to our bikes. Rosie has already left for rock-climbing, leaving an empty space between Victoire’s bike and mine. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Alice.” She winks.

 

I don’t go home first. I pedal around the square perimeter of the river six times until I’m too exhausted to bike anywhere but straight home. I stop and sit down under the willow tree. The bike is lying on the ground, the wheels turning. I try reach over, ready to yank the wheels off the bike. Pull it apart and slam it down on my failed being. Hit, slam, hard, until my tightly wound fibers pull apart and spill out. The white spirit, covered in the black paints of hell, remembers where she came from and begins to cry, wiping the flaws off of her still pure self. Instead my eyes droop. I stay sitting under the tree, pulling the long leafy hairs down around me. I end up yanking them down with me as I curl up and fall asleep.


	7. The Night Before The Plan Takes Place

I end up coming home around half-past seven. My dad is sprawled out on the couch, watching Manchester play against LFC. I guess Liverpool is closer to Yorkshire, but Dad’s partial to Manchester because he grew up there. United has won more league titles, anyway. When the ads come on he turns to me.

“Alice, where were you?”

“By the lake.”

“Oh.”

“How was your day?”

“Oh you know, average. More patents, more MHRA, that sort of thing.”

“Okay.” He’s looking at me. He’s looking at my hair.

“So is that stuff permanent?” Oh MY GOD WILL YOU STOP ASKING THIS QUESTION YOU’VE ASKED ME THIS QUESTION FOR A WHOLE FUCKING YEAR!

“Yes. But Mum won’t let me maintain it.”

“Well, good. You’re fourteen. Maybe when you’re older you can handle it better.”

I CAN HANDLE IT JUST FINE. “I’m going to bed now.”

“Okay. Have you had dinner yet?”

“No. I’ll grab something quick.”

“Okay. There’s pizza in the fridge, if you want it.” HELL YES!!!

“Okay. Thank you.” The game comes back on. I reach into the snack bowl and grab a Larabar. I walk up to my room and open the wrapper. I sit down in my white chair with the green stripes I’ve had since third grade. I lay out the bar and put it on the ottoman. Gripping the sides of the chair with everything I have, I take squirrel bites of my dinner. Aw look! It’s Alice the little squirrel! Look at her cute, bushy tail! You know what else has a bushy tail? A FUCKING PLAYBOY BUNNY!

Despite that interruption, I’m able to get through the whole bar as a squirrel without screaming. But then when I’ve finished and gone to the bathroom to change, brush my teeth, and throw the trash away, I come back into the room and bite both of my hands, to try and rip the flesh and reveal something underneath. But it doesn’t work. Now I’m too tired. I get into bed and shut the light off without reading anything.


	8. The Plan is Initiated

I wake up sweating and crying. You deserve this Alice. Don't’ think that you don’t. You should be excited, if anything. Might help you understand where you really stand so you can get the fuck up and improve your life. You only get one. YOU REALIZE THIS, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!

I get up, go to my bathroom. I take a look at my face. It’s pretty bad. It’s redder than I’ve ever seen it. “Don’t eat peanut butter Alice,” my Mom said. “Juliana Nichols always says, “It makes your face turn red.” You have so many pretty features too. Juliana told this terrible story on her show last week, don’t you remember? yes, mother. Of course I remember. Her father was doing so well on her Vegan Happiness program, losing weight and everything, but he kept eating too much peanut butter. So one day the skin fell off his face she noticed his face turned an awful shade of red and even when he stopped eating it for weeks and was losing more weight, his face stayed the same color! You’re always complaining about how your face looks, so why don’t you stop judging people and listen to their ideas. It might help Alice it might help! DO IT BITCH!!

 

You know, it would be really helpful if you listened to your mother sometimes. Maybe you wouldn’t be here doing this.

I pull the strands off that are stuck to my face with sweat and tears. Before I can cry anymore like a fucking baby I turn the shower on to scalding. I step in and gasp. If I’m not careful I could burn myself. Why don’t you try? Just save some skin before the fucking. I step far enough away from the liquid flames not to disappear into the smoke.

I get dressed, eat breakfast (an apple and a mini sunflower seed bar), brush my teeth. Do some homework, even. But before I know it it’s a quarter till seven. I change into my galaxy leggings and cavern club outfit. I walk downstairs, past Mum and Molly. They’re sitting in the living room, watching Downton Abbey. I used to watch that show with them, but they kicked me out there really is no point to the show after season three, when Matthew dies.

They pause the show. “Alice,” Mum asks in alarm. “Where are you going?”

“To get drunk on substances at Fabian Martin’s house,” Molly says, eating buttered popcorn out of a kids’ bowl.

Before Mum can reply, I say “No Molly, you can’t get drunk on substances anyway.” I turn to Mum. “I’m just going to Rosie’s to study for English and sleep over. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Mum looks tired. She sighs, “Okay, fine. I really wish you would communicate with me better about these things. But yes, you can go. But if I hear anything about going to Victoire’s, or about alcohol, or substances, then I’m serious Alice, you will be in serious trouble.” I’m already in “serious trouble”.

“Okay. Bye.”

I pull my bike out of the garage and head over to Rosie’s. She lives pretty close to the school, but it’s still really far from where she rock climbs. She doesn’t care though. She would probably complete a half-marathon just to go and climb slippery boulders. And probably fuck Aaron Stone. He’s this ginger in Year 11. Fabian can’t stand him. I don’t even remember why. I think something happened that everyone was talking about the year I stopped getting invited to sleepovers. Oh, stop being such a prick. You’ve been invited to every sleepover this year. This one’s a sex party. Sounds fun right? And you’re the head slut. Going straight to hell with your red dress and gorilla tits.

I get to Rosie’s at 7:05. Her house is like the ones near the forbidden forest where all of the elderly people live, but it’s big enough to fit her, her parents, and her little brother David. Earlier this year we tried to set him up with Molly. It didn’t really work out. David’s too smart for my sister anyway.

I walk up the steps and press on the doorbell. I hear footsteps. It’s Victorie, running down the stairs, the others following close behind.

“THERE YOU ARE!!” she screams, almost knocking me down the steps in her embrace. “OH MY GOD!!! WHAT TOOK YOU SO FUCKING LONG? I almost had to go over to your house and climb into your window so I would make sure you'd follow through with it!”

She drags me into the hallway. We go upstairs. Charlotte leads the way, with a giant bowl of popcorn no one will eat. Her nails are polished hot pink, and she’s wearing a Feminist Apparel t-shirt that reads Angry Liberal Feminist Killjoy and is embedded in a circle of flowers. Caite follows, her long red hair newly cut in layers, wearing black Nike shorts and an M&Ms t shirt that reveal scrawny crow legs and a nonexistent chest. Rosie follows, the only one in shoes (black Chocos), and wearing a loose fitting climbon tshirt, but somehow her outfit still manages to show off her chiseled abs and legs, everything without a trace of fat. Victoire is in front of me, in Nike shorts and a graphic tee with the flying scene from Titanic. There’s nothing the elastic band on those shorts can pinch.

We finally get to Rosie’s room. We sit on the wood floor and put the popcorn bowl in the middle. Rosie reaches under her bed and brings out a stash of pot nails. She probably got them from Aaron.

“Yes bitch, thank you,” Victoire grabs one and inhales. She hands one to each of us. Everyone smokes for one, long second. We throw them in the popcorn bowl. Rosie sits cross-legged in yoga position and and begins to waft the smoke from the nails in the middle to her nose. She’s been smoking since she was twelve and her Mum married Richard. “That way I won’t stuff my body with crap and ruin my training,” was what she told me. “You can have some, if you want.” My parents can smell pot from miles away, so it’s not really an option. (That’s the lamest excuse I have ever heard. Just ask to borrow some at the next fuck party and smoke near the river).

“Alright, let’s get down to business,” Victoire says, crossing her legs. “Rosie, you’ve got the Allen wrench. You have to show her how to use it.”

Rosie grabs the wrench under the bed next to the pot stash. She shows me how to to turn it so I can take a paperclip and twist it in the little space above it. Looks easy enough. Then they all begin to drill me on what I should do once I’m in there.

“Remember to assert yourself! Walk in there, stand tall, ignore his bitchy wife, and tell him how you feel!”

“Run up and snog him! Don’t freak out if there’s tongue!”

“If you can, feel his ass! I want to know too!”

“Don’t get too poetic and weird when you talk to him. You’ll have time for more dates!”

“Okay bitches,” Victoire says, checking her phone. “Let’s do this.”


	9. The Plan Is In Action, And Something Happens

The five of us left the house in silence. I’m holding the paper clip and Allen wrench in my right hand, and I’m yanking on my hair with my left. We cross the line of houses where Rosie lives until we see the intersection. A car speeds by. We cross the street. Turn left onto Harrison Lane. Third house down. There is a little wall that separates the houses from the sidewalk. All five of us crouch down and climb over the wall like deranged monkeys. We crawl along the perimeter and reach a backyard. There’s a playground with a little tree house, a slide, and two toddler swing sets. I’ve seen his kids. Five and three. One girl and one boy. Cassandra and Fletcher. Cassie looks like her mom with her long, brown hair, but everything else is her father. Fletcher’s more like his mom, I think. But it might be too early to tell. To the right of the playground there’s a basketball hoop, and then the side door. We have to be careful because there is a porch light that is shining directly on the mini wall that separates his house from the neighbor's. We crouch and listen. There are voices on the inside.

“So what do you think happened?” Laurel asks. You can hear them from the family room. Their house really does a terrible job at sound-proofing.

“I don’t know.” Wilson. His voice is shaking.

“Get over there!” Victoire pushes me out into the grass, forcing me to sprint over to the other side. “He’s in a raw state, your cue is coming soon!”

“Was it her Achilles? ACL tear?”

“Yeah, I think it was her ACL.”

“Will she be okay?”

“I don’t know. She’ll probably need surgery. I haven’t seen anything that bad in a long time. It’s my fault. There’s no reason I should have put her in the game. We would've won anyway.”

“Please don’t blame yourself. Without her goal we wouldn’t have won the championship. It isn’t your fault….Oh that’s beautiful! Did you make that? Come here Cassie...come to mama.”

I’m shaking. I look over at my friends. “Do it NOW!!” Victoire mouths.

What the hell am I doing? You’re ruined. Your fate is here. Go, do it now. What other option do you have? That’s right, use the wrench, turn it left, insert the paperclip, BOOM!


	10. He Sees Me

The door peeps open. Voices stop. A family of four stops what they’re doing to look at the demon in front of them. Fletcher in his mother’s arms, Cassie hiding behind her chiseled CrossFit stick-legs. There’s shock and fury in her eyes. She’s picturing a bucket above the door filled with water to melt the witch. Or pig’s blood. Whatever it takes.

Jonathan Paul Wilson is there. His brows are too shocked to furrow. His eyes flash once, like he might cry or scream, then his face is motionless. After a pause, he begins.

“Alice….What are you doing here?”

They’re waiting for me to answer. I’m still standing in front of them, the door slightly ajar. I open my mouth to explain myself, to give any reason as to why I might be there. But my face crumbles like paper. 

This is it. Your time to burn. Burn in hell. Watch the crows fly, the flames multiply. You’ll scream. Just you wait.

“I….” I turn to look behind me. The door has opened wider, revealing the four spectators outside. I can see their eyes bug. “I….I don’t….know…...I’m….. so sorry.” The last words are whispers on my deteriorating tongue. This is the part where I should have melted in the floor, below the house where snake sightings have been reported. The snakes would come down with me into the pits of hell. They would eat me and tell me the truth. Instead, I run. Past the amateur paparazzi, over the little wall. As I turn right off of Harrison Lane, I can hear “Alice!” being shouted from multiple people. People I knew well. People I didn’t.


	11. Things Go Downhill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Graphic suicide attempt

I lock the door behind me. I grab the knife from the cabinet underneath the sink. I rummage behind the puberty kit and find a pill bottle with a fading label. I hold it up to the light. Motrin I.B. The cap is a bitch to screw off. I finally get it though, after using a damp washcloth and lining up the arrows on the bottle. I set that aside. Then I throw off my t-shirt. My stomach is raised slightly over my galaxy pants, but if you turn to the side and try to look decent, it doesn’t work. I take off the pants too. And my knickers. They’re deep purple and lacy, to contrast the green in my hair. We all went to Victoria’s Secret after we coloured our hair.

Once everything is off, I look in the mirror. Veins protruding from my neck are visible. There’s some decorating my collarbone, long, purple snakes I don’t usually see. I extend my flabby log arms. It’s harder to tell with the upper half of the arm, but there are visible veins that circle my elbows and veins that stem from my wrist all the way into my arm, then disappear. I look down at my lower half. There’s veins on my side, near my stomach and hips, a ribcage on my stomach crying to be let free since I had the choice to eat breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. My legs and ankles have big, long snakes still pumping blood and hungry. The night is ready.

I cut.

I begin with a light doodle, my left hand drawing a thin line on my right arm. It burns enough so I let out a gasp. It’s a human gasp, your sinning soul coming out and telling you no. Don’t listen. I make little marks on my little finger bones, making sure to hold them over the sink so they won’t drip all over the floor. My right arm doesn’t want to move anymore. I move to my hips, making 2 little lines on each one. I begin writing on my left thigh. “You’re nothing” Move to the right “Go to hell.” The blood from my hips trickles down to the words I’ve written. I make lines on both of my legs. I fall to the floor, the open Motrin bottle coming down with me. You’re not done. I slash my upper stomach near my ribcage, hoping to remove what’s been keeping me from living a mortal life. There’s blood all over the floor. I make one slash near my collarbone. The world begins to spin and fade. I hear voices outside. “ALICE, I have to PEE!!”........ “Alice, this door’s coming down if you don’t open it.”............ “I’ll give you three counts.”......One. Two….SLAM!!! The mirror shatters. The monsters scream and dance. Lights out.


	12. The Aftermath Of The Plan: The ER

I wake up to white. White and smells. This isn’t hell. You’re in the wrong place. Don’t just lie there, get up and tell someone. I open my mouth and try to lift myself up to tell someone. A shock of pain and firecrackers releases from all areas of my body, and I emit a scream. FUCK! what did you do this time?

Two nurses run over. One of them presses a button on the wall near my bed. “She’s awake. Been asleep for three hours since the surgery. Yes, we’re checking levels now. They’re a little off, she’s in a bit of a shock….yes she woke up screaming…...this is Alice Clarke….attempted suicide….cutting….tried to overdose….five minutes….okay.”

Nurse 1 releases the button. I check her nametag. Michelle DeCapri. Okay. She’s giving instructions to Nurse 2. Lauren Reese. Lauren Reese is probably an intern, she doesn’t look too old. Probably twenty or something. She’s doing a good job of not running away.

“Have you got everything? Okay...yes, it’s all written down...good. She turns to me. “The psychiatrist will be here in just a few minutes. Your parents are in the waiting area, with your sister.” OHMYGODYOURPARENTSYOURSISTERNONONONONO!!!

“Where am I?”

“You’re currently in the Emergency Department. Your parents called an ambulance last night that took you here. You immediately went into surgery.”

I look at the parts of my body not covered in blanket. Everything’s tightly wrapped in gauze. I can see little spider stitches on my fingers and arms. My stomach and collarbone have a million black bites from the little creatures. There’s bandages on my legs too. I wonder if the words stayed there.

The doctor comes in. The nurses leave. He pulls up a chair and sits in it. He’s brought a clipboard with him.

“Hello. Let’s see….Alice Clarke.” (Is is that hard to remember my name?) He extends his hand (I can’t shake it you asshole I’m covered in bandages). “Doctor Robson. How are you feeling right now?”

“Um...like physically?”

“Physically and mentally.”

“Well….the stitches really hurt...like spider bites….and…..my head feels heavy. Like someone’s been yelling at me.”

“The feelings from the stitches will go away after a few days. You’ll be on antibiotics. As for feeling someone’s yelling at you...well...that’s pretty normal too. You’ve undergone quite a lot in the last few hours.”

“Wait..how long have I been here?”

“It’s four-thirty in the morning. You were admitted at 11 o’clock last night, underwent two hours of surgery, fell asleep for three hours, and you’ve been awake about a half-an-hour, so you’ve been here for about five and half hours.”

(Wow. He’s so good at math).

“And where am I going?”

“Well, you’ll be moved to the I.C.U in about an hour, so they can monitor your physical health for a day or so, and then you will be moved upstairs to the psychiatric unit.”

My face goes white. My voice trembles. “To the...psych ward?”

“Yes. It’s the best place to be at the moment, in your current condition. Normally we would have you discharged after a few days, but school’s nearly out, and...based on the extent of what you’ve done to yourself, we think we can provide you with the best treatment here. We’ve talked to your parents. They’re still in shock, but they agree. They definitely don’t want you back at school.”

“When can people see me?”

“They can see you when they’re ready. I don’t know when that will be.”

He gives me one last look. “The nurses will come back to check on you in fifteen minutes. I’ll see you again in a few days, to give you an evaluation.” He leaves the room.

 

I give myself fifteen minutes to cry. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! (WHAT WILL THEY DO TO ME?) YOU’VE DISAPPOINTED EVERYONE ALICE. THAT’S IT, YOU’RE FINISHED, YOU’RE DONE, YOU'RE DEAD. IF YOU HAD JUST HIT A FEW MORE VEINS, A FEW MORE ARTERIES, JUST ONE INTERNAL ORGAN, THIS WOULDN’T BE HAPPENING. YOU'D HAVE A NICE LITTLE CEREMONY AND FAR FEWER INSURANCE DOLLARS AND CRAZY. WOULDN’T THAT BE NICE ALICE? BUT NOTHING CAN EVER BE “NICE” WHILE YOU’RE STILL HERE.


	13. The Psych Ward And A Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know this is probably not the most medically accurate of chapters, but I think you can handle it.

Everything is loud and heavy for the next few days. They give me antibiotics to help the stitches. When I’m not crying every time the nurses get me to stand they take me to the psych ward. I get a room of my own. They place me in the wing with all of the other kids my age. There’s Jackson. Emo hair, electric blue like Victoire’s. Tried to kill himself after his parents threatened to take him to reform camp for “queer thinking.” There’s Naomi. A black Londoner, made entirely of muscle. Writes poetry. Has panic disorder and OCD. She tried to self-medicate with crack. Her parents found the stash and sent her here. There’s others, too. Sometimes we all sit around and Dr. Robson talks to us in a group. Other times he breaks us up into smaller groups. Some people talk. They usually cry. Other times they don’t. Those are usually the people who’ve been here the longest and their story is already sewn into an intricate blanket of experiences and crazy.

Dr. Robson also meets with everyone alone. He’s less of an asshole once you get to know him better. He diagnosed me with depression and generalized anxiety disorder, after asking me a bunch of questions. He also diagnosed me with EDNOS after dinner one night when we all had to eat cheeseburgers and a nurse had to come over and ask me why I was only eating the X part of the cheeseburger. She talks to me and I began to cry. No one looks over. Now the nurse sees me too. Everyone gives me pills. They watch me so I don’t throw them away. They also stand outside the washroom with the door cracked as I soak my stitches. When I’m out of the shower they give me a wheelchair so they can take me back to the room and do physical therapy. Everyone watches me. I’m volatile and untrustworthy, a bomb that’s gone off once but could go off again, any second.

They have a few approved books. They have all seven books from the Harry Potter series. I read those, over and over again. I don’t talk to anyone. They don’t talk to me.

I get cards from my advisory. I don’t know how much they know. A lot of it is “Get better soon!” sort of stuff. I rip the ones from my group to shreds. Mrs. Russell’s made me cry. She said she misses me, and the show will go on. Tina Spencer’s playing Laura.

After a few weeks, my parents come for a therapy session. They’re too shocked to cry until we begin talking. Then there’s tears. And screaming. Fingers pointing. Molly isn’t allowed to come.

I get a journal. I write in it during the day. They check all of ours. After the first three scream-fests I begin writing to make them easier. I’m the box. If I give the treasure hunters the key they’ll find what they’re looking for, even if it’s not diamonds. That’s the hardest thing. Realizing that people aren’t always expecting diamonds. Sometimes not giving them diamonds is what they wanted in the first place.

I keep taking the pills. After a few weeks it becomes easier to talk to people without looking away. To eat the X, Y, and Z parts of the cheeseburger. The voices in my head become less loud, or at least less true. The bandages come off, revealing raw, red, pink lines. The words I wrote are still there, but faded. I walk with a cane now. I keep writing. My parents keep coming. Even if I write everything down to a T, there is sometimes still screaming. It still scares me. But not as much as before. The best days are when their eyes widen and they start to understand, even if it’s just a little bit.

After a few months, Dr. Robson tells me about a call he got from a potential visitor. My stomach drops. I tell him I know who it is, and I want to see them, but alone. Dr. Robson approves. I write everything down, edit, add, delete. The day finally comes. I hear his voice down the hall. There are two chairs in my room, already set up. I sit down in one. There is a soft knock at the door.


	14. The Second Meeting

Mr. Wilson comes in. “Hey, Alice.” He pauses, takes in the last five months. “Can I sit there?”

“Oh! Yeah, absolutely!”

He pushes out the chair, sits across from me. “I see you have a journal.”

“Yeah. There are some things I need to, um, say.” I try to begin. “Um, I’m sorry, but, would you mind reading it?”

“Oh, no, not at all! Here,” He reaches across, takes the journal from my good hand.

He reads. Processes, turns the page. Shuts the journal. He sits there for what feels like three minutes. It probably is.

“Alice,” he whispers. “Thank you. Thank you for doing this. It’s been a crazy five months, for all of us. I mean really….I don’t think any of us were prepared for this.” He looks up at me. “I mean, this really just shows me the incredible courage you have. And I knew you had it, all along. I saw that even coming into my room every Monday to talk to me was hard for you.”

“But that’s not courage though. Not really. Anyone should be able to do that.” “And…” I begin to cry. “I get that everyone has these demons and thoughts and things. But that doesn’t mean they act on them.”

“But Alice,” he shakes his head, massages my hand. His blue eyes lock mine. “You can’t say that about yourself. I mean, it’s true, we all have demons, it’s part of what makes us human, but you can’t blame yourself for what happened. That is the last thing I want you to do. You are not responsible for what’s been going on in your head. Our thoughts are what drive our actions. But sometimes these thoughts don’t come from a place of reason. Some people are just born with them. You are one of those people, Alice. You are so smart, and so talented, and a lot of smart, talented people have these voices in their head that can sometimes make them sick.”

“But, what happened. With my friends. At your house. That….I thought about doing that. And I’m so, so sorry. You have to understand, I really…..am.”

“I know you are. And Alice, it really is okay. I know your friends were in on it too. We didn’t report it. I’ll move on from it, and I want you to move on from it too. Hang on.” He gets up, grabs the tissue box on the nightstand next to my bed. I take some. “I want you to realize this Alice. Friends don’t make people miserable. I know that it’s been hard for you to make friends and find friends, but that is really important to remember. It’s much better to find yourself now than to look for yourself through people who don’t care if you get hurt.”

“Um..oh wait, were you still talking?”

“No, what do you want to say?”

“Just….thank you. You’re so nice to me. You always have been. I mean, what you’re doing now…..coming to see me...like this…..I don’t understand.”

“It’s something I want to do, Alice. I mean, you’re a great kid. You really are. You always will be. I have no doubts in that at all. But it’s really important to remember that these thoughts are a part of you. Anxiety and depression stem from thoughts that are hard to get rid of. But you’re doing everything you're supposed to be doing. You’re here, you’re taking medication, you’re talking to people, you’re writing, all of those things will help you get better. And it takes time.”

“Is your wife still angry?”

“I mean, it was a little shocking, honestly, having you all come to the house and everything, but she’s really okay with it, Alice. It’s not something you need to worry about at all. She wants you to get better. If anything, she sees what a good person you are, and the strength that you have.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“I have to go now, Alice, but I’ll come back to visit.” He smiles. “I’m really, really proud of you.” He gets up and gives me a hug. “I’ll see you.”

“Bye.”

He shuts the door behind him.

Summer turns into fall. I don’t know how long I will be here. There are days I feel like flying. And there are days I don’t understand why it all matters. But I’ve started a story blanket. I don’t cry or shrink at sessions as much anymore. The intricacies of my story, the patterns, the holes, are starting to become clear.

I, Alice Jane Clarke, am becoming whole again.


End file.
